


Trust Issues

by greensweater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking, F/F, Femslash, Fluff, Light Angst, Weddings, there's not a huge market for harry potter femslash is there.... sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 17:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19932055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greensweater/pseuds/greensweater
Summary: “Checking me out, Chang?” Ginny’s lips curve into a smile.Cho hurries to the bar, grabs the club soda with athank youand nearly throws it at Ginny when she walks—measuredly, calmly—back into the bathroom.“Sorry,” Ginny says, abashed. “I’m dumb and I’m a little drunk and I joke too much and—” She gives Cho a furtive look that screamsyou have a dead boyfriend.“I have a dead boyfriend,” Cho says. She doesn’t cry this time.





	Trust Issues

“You’re fine,” Cho whispers to herself in the mirror. “You’re fine.”

Except her chin wobbles. Except her eyes fill the moment she blinks and she takes a deep breath, furiously willing the tears to fucking _stay in her eyes_ and not _ruin perfectly-applied winged eyeliner—_

“Oh.”

She whirls, a lone tear slipping down her cheek, to find Ginny Weasley standing sheepishly behind her, grasping a section of wine-stained dress.

“Pansy Parkinson,” Ginny says by way of explanation. “Hey, any way I could get in there for a second?”

Cho nods, hastily blotting her face and moving out of the way as Ginny takes her place by the sink. The water turns on, and Cho peers around to see what Ginny’s doing to that poor dress. Involuntarily, she lets out a gasp.

“ _What_ do you think you’re doing?” she exclaims, forgetting her embarrassment.

Ginny’s brow furrows in confusion. “What do _I_ think _I’m_ —”

“You can’t wash _satin_ with _hand soap!_ ” Cho pries Ginny’s hands from the stained fabric, examining it closely. “This isn’t too bad. I can get some club soda from the bar if you just wait a moment, and the stain will be all gone, promise.” Telepathically, she flashes Ginny a _please listen to me and don’t wreck this plain but admittedly gorgeous dress_ and wipes the remaining tears from her eyes. “I’ll be back in a second.”

Ginny looks rather punch-drunk. “Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

Cho nods, meaning to say _of course_ , or _no problem_ , or something else routine, standard, just girls-helping-girls rhetoric, but it gets stuck in her throat. Her gaze lingers on Ginny’s arms, which are almost completely covered in reddish-brown freckles and some sort of gold body glitter, wiry and muscular and flex deliciously every time she moves. Pro softball player, indeed.

“Checking me out, Chang?” Ginny’s lips curve into a smile. 

Cho hurries to the bar, grabs the club soda with a _thank you_ and nearly throws it at Ginny when she walks—measuredly, calmly—back into the bathroom.

“Sorry,” Ginny says, abashed. “I’m dumb and I’m a little drunk and I joke too much and—” She gives Cho a furtive look that screams _you have a dead boyfriend_.

“I have a dead boyfriend,” Cho says. She doesn’t cry this time.

“Shit.” Ginny scrubs at her dress and Cho winces.

“Let me.” The wine comes out relatively easily, considering the near-abuse it’s suffered through Ginny’s softball-strong grip.

“You’re a miracle worker. Holy shit,” Ginny says, smoothing her dress over her thighs. “I feel like I owe you.”

“Please, I’m a seamstress. It’s what I do.” Cho smiles. “And I feel like I should thank you, too.”

Ginny cocks a brow. “Explain. I have not done _one_ helpful thing this entire night, and it’s my brother’s wedding.”

Cho twists the empty club soda bottle in her hands. “I know you didn’t mention it—me crying—to be nice, and I appreciate that. It’s just… seeing everyone so _happy_. It’s been so long since he died; I thought I’d have no problem. I just. I needed something to distract me from the— _wedding-ness_ of it all. So. Thanks for giving me a mission.” She shoots Ginny a tremulous smile.

Outside the bathroom, the DJ strikes up some fast pop song from the early 2000s that Cho only vaguely recognizes. Ginny gasps.

“I _love_ this song!” She grabs Cho’s hands, and Cho only then realizes that Ginny might be more than a little drunk. Ginny’s nails are short, practical, messily painted a glowing shade of neon green that decidedly does _not_ match her dress. 

“But—” Cho tries, then gives up. It’s useless arguing with a Weasley (she knows this from first-hand experience—Ron Weasley _does not compromise_ on perceived soccer fouls). 

The moment Ginny drags her from the bathroom into the loud, overcrowded banquet hall, she almost loses her nerve. She’s never been much of a party person, and neither had Cedric—they’d preferred, rather than dancing and drinking, to watch a quiet movie and eat takeout while curled on their squashy navy-blue couch. The flash of memory nearly incapacitates her for a moment, until Ginny throws a strong arm around her shoulders and she shivers at the _contact_ , the warm solid touch that she hasn’t felt in—

“It’s strange!” Ginny shouts over the music.

“What is?”

“We’ve both dated Harry Potter!”

“Oh!” Cho snorts. “He was a _horrible_ kisser, wasn’t he?”

Ginny shrieks with laughter, white teeth flashing, and twirls Cho until they’re both dizzy and giggling, clutching each other to keep upright. 

They dance for minutes, hours, days. Ginny drinks two more glasses of wine, then professes that a terrible mistake and goes to sit down at one of the vacated banquet tables, plates and cake crumbs still scattered on top. 

“You all right?” Cho asks, dropping into the seat next to her. Both of their shoes lie discarded under the table; they’ve got the marks to explain.

Ginny rubs her eyes, smearing her mascara, and doesn’t even seem to care. “Whoever invented alcohol,” she says, choosing her words carefully, “was a _bastard_.”

“And we thank them for it,” says Cho.

“Fuck.” Ginny stands unsteadily. “I feel like a suburban housewife. Let’s go outside.”

Something you must understand about rather drunk girls is that they form bonds very quickly, much like a duckling imprinting on its mother. However, in these scenarios, both girls are simultaneously the ducklings and the mothers. This can lead to drama, lifelong friendships, or friendships that seem as though they’re going to last a lifetime but only last until one of them’s en route to the hospital with alcohol poisoning.

In this case, Cho merely wants to sit outside and feel the cool night air on her face and maybe, if she’s lucky, touch Ginny’s long, thick hair and see if it smells like strawberry shampoo.

They stumble to a bench across from the entrance. Even though it’s midsummer, there’s a slight breeze that makes the night just a little too sharp.

“Fuck me,” Ginny mumbles, and closes her eyes for a long moment. When she opens them, Cho is sitting with her legs tucked under her dress, hair spilling from its careful updo. She’s watching Ginny, of course—who wouldn’t be? The moonlight touches her face just right, framing it in silver and making her eyes look dark, fathomless. She looks almost like a sculpture, albeit a quite freckly one.

“You’re beautiful,” Cho blurts, then drags her hand over the wooden slats to her left, feeling the smooth artificial wood and focusing on that, focusing on that.

Ginny says nothing, then—

“How long has it been?”

Cho’s stomach does a sort of uncomfortable twist. “Since what,” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“Since you’ve kissed anyone. Fucked anyone. Been with anyone.” Ginny’s tone is casual. Loaded. _Asking_.

The anger and the tears surge in tandem. 

“That’s—private!” Cho hisses, thankful that the moon doesn’t cast enough light to let Ginny see her eyes filling. “I don’t even know you that well and you think you can ask me about my personal life? I confided in you and that was the information _I_ chose to share.” She takes a deep, shuddery breath and decides to continue before she loses her nerve. “I miss him every day, okay? He’s in my fucking house, all over the couch and in the pictures and in my goddamn bed and in the music I listen to and just all of it. I can’t bring anyone there because it feels—it feels—”

“Like he’s there, always watching you,” Ginny supplies.

Cho blinks.

“My brother died, remember? I feel it when I’m playing softball. His voice in the stands.” Little lines by the corner of her mouth deepen. They’re both too drunk and too exhausted to be having this conversation. “I get it.”

Instead of words, Cho moves closer. She sniffs, giving a watery chuckle. “Sorry. I’m an asshole.”

Ginny stares at a potted plant that’s been tipped over by the door. “Someone should go clean that up.” She smiles at Cho; not one of those breezy, unflappable grins, but a real smile. A tiny one just for her.

“I want to go home with you,” Cho confesses, the air leaving her lungs in a rush, all at once. She feels surprisingly… okay with saying it. And if there’s the slightest little twinge of pain, of memory? She takes a deep breath.

Ginny nods, surprisingly solemn. It’s like she knows just how big of a step this is, and actually _cares_. “Okay.”

“I’m scared,” whispers Cho, and leans into Ginny’s shoulder. “I’m ready, but… I’m _scared_.”

“Come on,” Ginny says into her ear, warm and slightly wine-scented breath touching her neck. She pulls back and gives Cho another one of those stunning, white-teeth-and-bright-eyed grins. “If all we do is sleep, that’s okay. And I won’t break your heart. You can trust me.”

Cho nods, and Ginny takes her hand, twining their fingers together. As they ride back to Ginny’s apartment, as Ginny’s kissing her way up Cho’s thighs, as they’re laying together in a pool of warm sunlight the next morning, all tangled up and blissfully comfortable, Cho hears those words echoing in her head.

_You can trust me._

And the funny thing is, Cho thinks she will.

**Author's Note:**

> leave comments and kudos if you liked :)


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